Another Fork in the Road
by Anthropos Agnostos
Summary: Two N.I.D. agents visit a prisoner at a Black Site with an offer of freedom. The deal seems good... but what will the agents ask for in return? (One-shot fic, set in the same alternative universe as "The Road Not Taken" episode)


Standing just outside the hanger, Agent Van Dyke watched with glee as another F-302 taxied past him. The lethal, crescent-shaped craft rolled out slowly and without preamble, moving up the runway like a prowling jungle cat. Powerful turbines purred smoothly, churning the cool autumn air with a lazy heat-haze. Without warning, the purring gave way to an ear-splitting shriek as the pilot increased the thrust of the twin 15 000+ horsepower engines. In an instant the tarmac rumbled with the sound of a multi-ton spaceplane thundering down the strip at a speed 500 kilometers an hour. With eye-scorching quickness the warplane begun to climb steeply, its grey forward-swept wings pointing skyward as it rocketed towards the darkness of space. A near-impossible maneuver – only by cheating physics with inertial dampeners could the pilot make such a fast, steep ascend.

In an instant it was over, the aircraft disappearing from view in the cloudy autumn sky.

"I'll never get tired of that," Van Dyke commented, grinning wildly "Wish we had these babies back when I was flying sorties over Belgrade". Automatically, the young man absentmindedly rubbed at his prosthetic right hand, the blocky metal appendage poking out of his finely-tailored suit.

Christopher Van Dyke, a Pennsylvania Dutch native, never regretted leaving his rural farm life to join the Air Force. In his opinion losing a hand to a botched ejection from his F-16, shot down over hostile territory during the Yugoslav Conflict, was a worthy trade-off for his time spent in the USAF soaring above the clouds and performing air maneuvers at the very edge of human endurance. But his injury necessitated a career change – and even as the N.I.D. enticed him to become one of their intelligence agents in exchange for a significant pay bump and a bleeding-edge prosthesis, Christopher knew he would gladly give up his _second_ arm if it meant he could have just a few more years as a pilot.

A coughing snort escaped from Van Dyke's partner as the man finished off his cigarette. "Did we really come all this way just so you can look at the birds?" Agent Khang asked rhetorically, flicking away his cigarette bud. Unlike his younger colleague, Victor Khang was never enthusiastic about flying or field-work. As a behavioral analyst he spent much of his professional life behind a desk, pouring over reports and devising strategies to convince other people to carry out the agency's dirty work. The Korean-American's preference for sedentary craft had shown as his suit hugged him unflatteringly at the waist, his lungs wheezing from thirty years of smoking. Still, as much as he detested foreign deployments some operations were too important to leave in the hands of greenhorns. "Let's get moving. You can drool over the F-302s when we're stateside – I don't want to spend any more time in Poland than I have to."

A few years ago Poland held no interest to the shady intelligence agency. Nowadays, much has changed on the world-stage in the years following the "Anubis Incident" and the ignoble reveal of the Stargate Program. Moscow and Washington nearly came to blows over the Ancient Outpost in Antarctica and the relations between the two superpowers never recovered. With President Lendry facing the unenviable task of restoring order and rebuilding America following Anubis's bombardment the ex-general had to evoke "emergency powers", curtailing civil rights and suspending due process to this very day. This, coupled with US scaling back its commitments around the globe, had also led to a souring of relations between America and its traditional allies in Western Europe. But where some saw folly, others smelled an opportunity: the Polish government was quick to ingratiate itself to America and earn a protector against its traditional eastern rival. The Biała Podlaska Air Base, once home to Soviet aircraft, was quickly leased out to the USAF. In short order, it became a little slice of Americana in eastern Poland, home to two squadrons of fully-armed F-302s – only a few minutes flight-time from the Russian border.

But while the military brass saw Podlaska only as an important forward base the N.I.D. had other views on the matter: for them it was an ideal Black Site.

Making their way into the hanger, the two "men-in-black" weaved their way past pilots and maintenance workers keeping the base operating smoothly. The N.I.D. representatives and the busy airmen payed little heed to one another, not sparing even a nod to acknowledge the presence of the other party as the two groups learned to steer clear of the other's affairs, their respective operations on Biała Podlaska running independent of one another.

Past the rows of parked F-302s and munition-racks, at the back of the large structure Khang and Van Dyke boarded an unassuming service-elevator. A sweep of the ID card sent the lift downward deep beneath the surface base.

Like all Cold War instillations Podlaska had its share of secrets. The one that interested the N.I.D.? A bunker-system running 15 meters below the surface, protected by three layers of blast-resistant concrete and interlocked rebar. Originally used to store fuel and weapons, the intelligence agency had given it a new purpose.

Exiting the lift, Khang and Van Dyke were greeted by a narrow concrete hallway with two rows of heavy steel doors on either side. Unlike the bustling and noisy hanger above them, the sound-proof, empty hallway felt sterile and lifeless. Gone was the noise of workers and the smell of sweat, replaced by the flicker of florescent lights and the hum of hidden defense-turrets. The unseen weapons were custom-built, designed to prevent break-outs by inmates deemed a flight-risk from both Area 51 and off-world bases. Trust operatives, Ori converts, Jaffa warlords, even a few Goa'uld – all found their way behind the steel doors inside the off-the-books Polish prison.

Cut off from their off-world assets and connections within the US, very few of the highly-dangerous individuals below Biała Podlaska could hope to see the light of day. The prisoner in Cell 14, however, just happened to be one of those few.

* * *

The old man sighed, once more pulling at his leather restraints. It was at least half an hour since the guards burst into his windowless cell and strapped him to a wooden chair. The table and extra seating they brought indicated he should expect company and he intended to surprise his would-be interrogators given half a chance.

Before he could try to slip his wrist free for the fifth time the metal door creaked open allowing the prisoner a look at his "guests". The first to stride in was a younger man, broad shouldered with a well-maintained buzz-cut of a career soldier and thick neck muscles of a fighter jock. He carried a vanilla folder in his right hand – a modular, grey-metal appendage that looked so much like Replicator technology it made the onlooker shudder with unpleasant memories.

Close behind walked in a short, stout Asian with unkempt hair and a surprisingly thick mustache. He carried none of the confidence or bravado of his young partner though the captive was not fooled. He could see the second agent take up a position in the corner of the room and observe the unfolding situation with a keen, experienced gaze.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the younger man said as he sat down. "I'm Special Agent Van Dyke, NID. This is Agent Khang. And we're here because your nation needs you."

The inmate chuckled. "And what would Uncle Sam need an old coot like me for?"

"Oh, don't sell yourself short – your reputation precedes you." Van Dyke opened the vanilla folder with a flourish. "General Jacob Carter, Air Force, retired. Performed two tours of duty in Vietnam, carried out several top-secret missions in Zaire during the Shaba Crisis, took part in the Grenada Invasion and the Panama Conflict before being relocated to desk-duty in time for the Gulf War. Retired in 1994 and got a new lease on life in 1998 when you became host to a Tok'Ra known as Selmak. You then served as a field operative, a member of the Tok'Ra High Council and Earth's liaison. Your work was instrumental in the destruction of several System Lords, the creation of the Kull-disrupter gun and translation of the Dakara Superweapon. Following the defeat of the Replicators you requested asylum on Earth as the Tok'Ra High Council, dismissive of all that you accomplished, sought to put you & Selmak on trial for sharing secret ship-tracking technology with the SGC. Unlike the Council, President Landry saw your value as he provided you and Selmak a place on his Advisory Committee. His respect for your work and career is why you're still alive Jacob and not worm-food like the rest of the coup-plotters."

Carter frowned. "Son, I've spent decades fighting despots and tyrants. Selmak dedicated her entire two-thousand-plus years to overthrowing self-proclaimed gods. Did Landry really think we were going to stand by and do nothing as he turned America into an Orwellian nightmare? Or that we'd crawl back to him when he sends two goons here to sweet-talk me?"

"Not at all," Khang intervened, seeking to steer the conversation back on target. "My partner was merely highlighting your dedication to the safety of this planet and the galaxy at large. Regardless of what you personally think of President Landry, you are well aware of the threat the Ori pose to everyone. So far, no one in the galaxy was able to put a dent in their war-effort... but this may change soon. Stargate Command was made aware of a distant Ancient Outpost – one that is potentially even more powerful than the Antarctic Weapons Platform. We're looking to put together a team to unlock its secrets and take the fight to the Ori. Your joint experiance and proficiency in the Ancient script would make you & Selmak true assets. We're not simly giving you a free ticket out of here, General – we're asking for your help against a common enemy."

Jacob lowered his head, internally conversing with Selmak. When he finally looked up his eyes flashed gold to the discomfort of both agents.

" **My host will only cooperate if he is allowed to see his daughter.** "

"That can be arranged," Victor Khang lied. "Though it might take time as she is on long-term off-world assignment. Her work is critical to the success of our mission - it might please you to know that she was the one who discovered the location of the Ancient facility in the first place." A half-lie this time. Samantha Carter was indeed the one who informed the S.G.C. of the Lantean outpost, but it was not the Sam Carter her father knew. Jacob's daughter died when a freak physics accident pulled her double from an alternative reality into this one. Now that the double had managed to find her way home, Jacob would never again have a chance to meet with his child.

" **And what exactly is this outpost?** "

Khang kept his composure but Van Dyke grinned widely. They put forth their pitch and the prey was hooked. Now for the clincher.

"Ever heard the legend of Atlantis?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Written for Round 11 of the Tok'Ra Kree! prompt-a-thon.**

 **This fic is based on the following prompt: "What if a Tok'ra was stranded on Earth? You get to pick the time period and who their host is. Do they meet SG-1?"**


End file.
